You Know Where to Find Me
by May Alice Page
Summary: Oneshot. Sherman's guilt results in him suffering a nasty nightmare, an event through which he learns he talks in his sleep. Contains MPAS spoilers.


Sherman's first week of school had officially ended, and although the first couple of days had been eventful, to say the least, the rest had gone quite swimmingly. Perhaps now life would return to normal. At least, that was what Mr. Peabody supposed. Naturally, anyone who had experienced the events of that Tuesday night was likely to still be a bit stirred from the ordeal, but Sherman seemed to be getting on just fine. The boy's father remained blissfully unaware of what had been troubling him ever since then.

Sherman tried to ignore it, reminding himself constantly that everything was alright now, that he wasn't going to be taken away, and Mr. Peabody wasn't going to be -

He shook his head slightly, unable to even finish the thought. As a matter of fact, the more he tried to keep such things out of his mind, the more they seemed to stick. He had been told several times in the past that deliberately trying not to think of something would only remind one more of what one is trying to forget, but he couldn't think of anything else to try. He turned over in his bed, now facing his digital clock. Twelve ten. Mr. Peabody wouldn't be too happy to see the boy still awake, but nevertheless he grabbed his iPod from the nightstand, along with his headphones. Not much later, the music had at least helped him relax somewhat, so he turned the iPod back off, set it and the headphones aside once more, and closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep within a few minutes.

* * *

Mr. Peabody was still up, the volume on the television turned down just enough so that it wouldn't wake Sherman from down the hall. Some might have been surprised to see the likes of Peabody staying up to watch _Saturday Night Live_, of all things, but he felt he needed a simple laugh after an especially tiring week. Besides, it wasn't entirely an _un_intelligent program. But regardless of his mixed feelings toward it, tonight he only allowed himself to get up off of the sofa during commercial breaks. During one break in particular, the one he predicted would precede the Weekend Update, he'd sauntered into the kitchen for a simple glass of water, speeding up just a touch on his way back so as not to miss the beginning of the segment. Though he didn't watch the show often, he'd always personally been partial to the Update. No sooner had he placed his glass on the coffee table and sat back down than he heard a jarring shriek from a familiar, shrill voice: _"Mr. Peabody!"_

Cecily Strong and that Colin Jost fellow would have to wait.

"Sherman?" the beagle called out in response, nearly racing to his son's room. He didn't receive an answer, and this only caused his fear to skyrocket. Although the idea did cross his mind for just a fraction of a second, obviously no one could have broken in. That would never slip past him. This must have been some kind of accident - though what was so horrid that could have befallen the boy in his own bedroom was beyond him. When he reached Sherman's door, his paw slipped briefly on the handle, and he started to hear unusually heavy breathing. He immediately flipped on the light switch upon entering the room, only to see his son perfectly safe in his bed, though looking quite distressed. The child's eyes were shut, and his head still on the pillow. Peabody raised his hand over his chest with a sigh of relief. "Sherman?" he said again; softer this time, naturally. He crossed the room to the bed and gently nudged Sherman's shoulder, "Sherman, wake up!"

The boy jolted awake with a sharp gasp and turned his head up toward his father, who had the same look of concern he'd come to know quite well: eyebrows furrowed with the corners turned upward, worry and sympathy in his eyes. He appeared to be awaiting an answer for what was the matter, but Sherman just stared, still petrified from his nightmare. Tears started to well up in his eyes and soon they were streaming down his face. He was still breathing too hard. Knowing Peabody was still expecting an explanation, he tried to gather up some combination of words that would make some sense. "You we- you went over the cliff," was all he could manage to get out, a hint of panic in his tone.

Peabody's shoulders dropped and his brows relaxed as he shifted his eyes downward. He should have known this would still be haunting the poor lad when only a few days had passed. Looking back up, he sat on the side of the bed and patted his son on the shoulder, "You're safe now, Sherman. We both are. It was only a bad dream."

But Sherman was hardly consoled. "It was my fault," he choked. "Wasn't it."

"Not at all!" Mr. Peabody tried to reassure him.

Sherman shook his head, "But if I didn't go -"

"Sherman, if there's anything you should feel any guilt for whatsoever, it's that you weren't already sure I'd be fine." Peabody had a more stern expression now. "Honestly, have a bit more trust in me, would you?" he muttered, half-jokingly.

Sherman wiped the tears off of his cheeks as his breathing returned to a normal pace. If Mr. Peabody didn't think there was anything to fret over, maybe he was onto something. He still felt a bit of residual guilt, but perhaps it really was unwarranted. The boy nodded slightly, then leaned his head against his dad's shoulder and pulled him into a hug. Mr. Peabody smiled softly and ruffled his boy's mop of red hair.

After a few minutes of allowing Sherman to simply relax, he raised his eyebrows and inquired, "Do you think you'll be okay the rest of the night?" Sherman took a second to think, then nodded confidently, almost certain the nightmare wouldn't return - at least not that night. "Goodnight, then," his dad grinned.

With that, Mr. Peabody got up and started for the door. "I love you, Mr. Peabody," the small voice piped up once more.

"I love you, too," Peabody replied, looking back over his shoulder. He took hold of the handle on the outer side of the door, "And if you need me, you know where to find me." He turned out the light and closed the door gently, soothed to know his son was safe, and hopefully wouldn't beat himself up any longer.

Sherman pulled the covers up over himself, turned over to face away from the clock, and soon fell back asleep, a smile (albeit a small one) staying on his face.


End file.
